


In His Image - alternative ending

by daasgrrl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock (TV) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, General Absurdity, M/M, Meta, Post Reichenbach, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2012-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-18 06:10:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daasgrrl/pseuds/daasgrrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I believe that you have probably gone well past the outer limits of sanity when you start writing AUs... of AUs. Mostly self-indulgent, but also for the handful of people who were a little wistful about the abrupt disappearance of "John" and "Ben". Of course, things obviously can't work out well for <i>everyone</i>. Will make very little sense unless you've read <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/442106">In His Image</a>, and possibly not even then.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In His Image - alternative ending

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to **evila_elf** for beta, as ever.

He lay on the hard concrete as the warmth of the midday sun bore down on him. The pain in his head was unbearable now. One hand clutched the side of his skull while his other held desperately onto Ben, wanting somehow, still, to protect him from Brook even though he knew it was hopeless. Ben was going to die, and John couldn’t do a thing, and it was somehow all his fault. _I’m sorry_ , he wanted to say. Ben, _I’m so sorry_.

The last thing he remembered was the shock in Ben’s eyes, the fear in his voice.

“John!”

***

The rooftop and Ben and the press of hands quickly faded away, disappearing not into darkness but into light, as though the pain in John’s head had shifted form, transmuted itself into a blinding brightness. He fell into it, through it, and then the visions were back in a dizzying flood, overwhelming him. Sights and sensations pressed in upon him relentlessly, one after the other, no longer feeling like dreams, or fantasies, but closer, realer, than ever before.

_Richard Brook. Moriarty. The man is back again, inescapable, his face seeming to fill John’s entire frame of vision. Only now he seems to have altered, too. The gentle smile and severe black suit are gone, and now he only looks modern, rumpled, confused, standing in someone’s living room, maybe his own. He wears a cardigan and jeans; there’s stubble on his chin, his hair sticking up at all angles as though he’s just woken from sleep. John sees him babbling something inaudible, his hands held up in a panicked defence against John’s anger. For John_ is _furious; he can feel it churning through his body, adrenalin-sharp, even if he doesn’t understand why…_

_And the anger still burns in him, only now it’s deeper, darker. He’s no longer in someone’s house but a laboratory of some kind, maybe at Barts, maybe somewhere else entirely. He turns and discovers Sherlock is now the target of his rage. As John yells, Sherlock just sits there looking indifferent, almost bored. John leaves the room, only narrowly resisting the urge to slam the door behind him…_

_Then he’s looking up at the rooftop with his phone in his hand, Sherlock’s voice in his ear, Sherlock’s silhouette against the sky, and there’s only room for worry in John’s heart now, only that…_

_Sherlock, saying goodbye, tossing the phone away before pitching forward into nothingness…_

_John’s running, then, his heart pounding in his chest, already knowing he’s too late, too slow. The glimpse of Sherlock’s body on the ground hits him with the force of a physical blow, and then the metaphor turns all too real as something does hit him, hard, like the recoil of a pistol, and he’s falling as well, slowly, endlessly. He feels one sharp burst of pain and then there’s nothing, only blackness…_

***

The throbbing in his head was gone; that was the first thing he knew. As his senses slowly returned, John became aware he was lying on his side, with his right leg bent up slightly and his right hand pillowed against his cheek. Even in his dazed state he recognised it as the recovery position, and the pressure of slender fingers at the pulse point of his outstretched wrist only confirmed his suspicions. He’d been hit by that cyclist, he remembered. He could feel the heat of the concrete under his head, hear the slow, steady whoosh of his own breathing.

“John? Can you hear me?” It was a woman’s voice, coming from close beside him, young and high and insistent. One hand stayed wrapped around his wrist, but he felt another gripping his shoulder gently, shaking him. How did she know his name?

“I think he’s coming round,” he heard her say.

He opened his eyes, and then it all came back to him in a sickening rush. _Sherlock_ , he thought in his confusion. _Never mind me, what about Sherlock, he’s over there, dying, so much blood, he needs help…_ the thought forced him back into his body, spurred him into motion.

“Sherlock,” he muttered to himself, trying to focus. He pushed the hands away and wrenched himself up off the ground, trying to scramble to his feet. He’d only made it as far as a sitting position when suddenly Sherlock was right _there_ , crouched in front of him, his face looking pale and serious but seemingly unmarked, unbloodied. John blinked in shock as Sherlock’s hands steadied him.

“John, thank god. I mean, it’s okay. You’re okay. You are all right, aren’t you?”

“You’re alive,” John said in disbelief, struggling with the apparition before him. He reached out an uncertain hand to Sherlock’s face, his fingers brushing lightly against the skin of his cheek, coming away with traces of oil and sweat. Real enough, then. The fog in John’s head was clearing, but far too slowly. Somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind, he thought he could hear the soft, inexplicable strains of a violin.

“Um…yes, of course.” Sherlock looked disturbingly unsure about the matter himself. “Do you remember what happened?”

John stared at him for a long moment while his brain struggled with the conflicting details of memory and observation —Sherlock’s shorter hair, his cut of his grey tweed suit, the expression of uncertainty that sat oddly on his angular features. Then he shook his head, blinking away the last of his confusion. Of course. He remembered now. This wasn’t Sherlock. Or, at least, not _that_ Sherlock, the one he’d seen in dreams, in those fragmentary visions. This was…

“Ben,” he said at last, and was relieved when that drew a tentative smile.

“God, you had me worried for a minute there. How are you feeling?”

“’m fine,” John said, although he still felt weak and shaky. The music in his head had faded away to nothing, as though smothered under a heavy weight of silence, and for no reason he understood he could have wept for it. He had the sudden longing to bury his head against Ben’s shoulder, but caught himself and squeezed his arm instead. When Ben pulled him into an awkward embrace anyway, he hadn’t the strength to protest.

Finally Ben released him, glancing upwards, and John followed his gaze to the woman who stood beside them, who had been standing there quietly all along.

“ _Is_ he all right, do you think?” Ben asked her.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” she said, smiling a little too brightly. Her voice was the one John had heard earlier, the one that had said he was coming round. She was young and fresh-faced, her long brown hair drawn back into a neat ponytail. John remembered a voice calling for the set medic just before he’d blacked out. _Molly._

“We’ll keep an eye on him for a bit to be sure,” she continued. “I’ll go fetch some water. He’s probably just had a touch too much sun, nothing to worry about. You stay here, keep talking to him.”

She left them alone, but by then John was uncomfortably aware that they’d had a much bigger audience than he’d realised. However, now that all the excitement was over, most of the crew had begun drifting away, studiously pretending they had work to do even though there was obviously a limited amount they could achieve without Ben. However, no one had attempted to drag him off just yet.

“You know what I’m about to say, don’t you?” Ben said. He was still crouched down beside John, looking at him with resignation.

“Yes, and I’d like to remind you again that I _am_ a doctor. And I’m fine,” John said. “Anyway, I was only out for, what, five minutes?”

John had already done the analysis in his head. Standard procedure for fainting would have seen him initially laid flat on the ground with his feet elevated. Only if he’d remained unresponsive after two minutes would a change to the recovery position and continued monitoring have been indicated. So obviously he’d been out long enough for that much to have happened, but not quite long enough to suggest the need for urgent medical attention. When he’d regained consciousness Molly had not had her phone out to call for an ambulance, nor had she later called to cancel one already en route. Which left a likely window of between three to seven minutes that John had been unconscious.

“About that, yes. It was all terribly dramatic, though.” Ben attempted a laugh, but it wasn’t entirely convincing.

“Yeah, I’m sorry about… I don’t even know what that was.” John lifted a tentative hand to his head, half-expecting the return of pain or confusion at any moment, but he really did feel fine now, as clear-headed and sharp as ever.

“Molly appears to think you’ve just had too much sun.”

“I don’t know… maybe I have.”

“Right.” Ben made an inelegant scoffing noise, even though the concern never left his face. “I may not be a _doctor_ , John, but I’m not stupid. People don’t have worsening headaches, collapse in a heap, and then agree it was _probably too much sun_. I can understand why Molly might believe that, given she missed seeing it actually happen, but not you.”

“Might believe what?” Molly said cheerfully. She bent down to hand John an already-opened bottle of water.

“Nothing,” John said, thanking her before taking a long swallow. “He’s just jealous I’m the one getting all the attention for a change.” She giggled a little at that, but John didn’t miss the assessing flicker of her eyes from him to Ben and back again.

After the water, John was finally allowed to get up, with some entirely unnecessary assistance from Molly and Ben. However, he was then promptly assigned a folding chair in the shade, where he was told he’d have to remain for at least half an hour. Ben laid a hand on his shoulder and gave him one more meaningful look before dutifully returning to his place by the balustrade.

After a few minutes Richard joined him there, giving John a quick, curious glance before engaging Ben in conversation. John immediately tensed at the sight of him, remembering the pain in his head, the overwhelming fear he’d felt for Ben, but they showed no signs of returning. His anxiety now was only an entirely predictable reaction to what had happened earlier. He forced himself to breathe slowly and evenly until it passed.

Eventually some actual filming was accomplished, which to John’s untrained eye essentially meant that Ben and Richard began having the same conversation over and over again for almost an hour. During that time the cameras occasionally changed position, make-up was retouched, a swooping bird took a momentarily entertaining dislike to Richard’s top hat, and once or twice Ben entirely lost the thread of what he was saying and had to start over, but despite such thrilling diversions John found sitting there excruciatingly dull. Ben occasionally looked over and smiled at him between takes, but his focus was clearly on his work, and John was grateful for it. He had no desire to disrupt things any more than he already had done. Nevertheless he was disconcertingly aware of the covert glances he continued to attract as work continued around him.

By the time they broke for lunch, John was more than ready to leave. While there really wasn’t anywhere on the rooftop that could be regarded as private, especially when he had Ben in tow, John settled for leading him a little distance away from the main filming site before telling him he was heading off.

“Are you _sure_ you’ll be okay?” Ben caught his arm briefly. “You should at least stay and have something to eat.”

John shook his head. “I’m fine. And yes, I’m sure. I think that whatever it was… the headaches, everything… it’s passed.”

“Really.” Ben’s voice skittered on the edge between hope and scepticism. “And how do you know that, exactly?”

“I can’t explain. Or at least, not here. But I know.”

“All right,” Ben said, but he didn’t look happy about it. “You had just better be right.”

He hugged John goodbye a little too long, and then walked him back towards the rooftop exit. There was a makeshift tent nearby emanating vaguely savoury smells, which seemed to be the current focus of attention. As he waited for the lift John caught one more glimpse of Richard Brook, lifting a forkful of salad to his mouth, and realised just how ridiculous his fears had been. Despite the menace his “Professor Scott” character apparently posed to Sherlock, Richard himself was clearly just another actor; as harmless as they came.

***

Despite the theoretical demands of his work, Ben somehow managed to text John repeatedly over the course of the afternoon. After the third interruption, John took to ignoring him in favour of his research blog, and simply responded with a previous message: _Still fine._ It was therefore something of a surprise when Ben actually came through the door at shortly before seven.

“I did ask if you perhaps wanted to meet me somewhere for dinner,” Ben said, dryly. “But apparently you were _still fine_.”

John gave him an apologetic look and got up from the table, shutting the laptop. “Well, it was true. We could still go out, though.”

“Let’s just get a takeaway. I’m assuming you forgot about lunch again.”

“That would… probably explain why I’m hungry now, yeah.”

Ben rolled his eyes, but John forestalled any further comments by going over and kissing him thoroughly. While John didn’t fully understand what had happened today at Barts, it still felt oddly significant, as though something obscure had ended, or begun. It had left John with the overwhelming need to reaffirm what was between them all over again, and from the strength of Ben’s response, he seemed to understand at least a little of how John felt. They pressed up against each other desperately, as though it had been days rather than hours. John’s hands moved from cupping Ben’s face to slide a little further down his body, but then reluctantly stopped before either of them could get too carried away. By then his stomach was informing him in no uncertain terms that he actually _was_ hungry, which Ben had noticed and for some reason seemed to find terribly amusing.

“Right,” Ben said, still smiling. “I’ll just order some ‘anything I want’, shall I? Chinese?” He’d long given up asking John what he might be in the mood for, because John honestly didn’t care most of the time. If he were hungry, and the substance before him was recognisable as food, he’d probably eat it.

“Sounds good.” John left him to it and headed into the kitchen, returning to set the smaller table in the living room with bowls and plates and utensils.

Ben called and ordered, using John’s name for convenience, as always. Prawn rolls, chicken, pork, noodles. It was a singularly unadventurous selection, which meant Ben was still likely rattled by the events of earlier today. John could have written a short monograph on the correlation between Ben’s takeaway orders and his associated states of mind, but doubted it would be very much appreciated.

After hanging up, Ben joined John on the settee, a recent acquisition that had replaced John’s charity shop version. They took a minute to settle in comfortably against each other, John with his back against Ben’s shoulder, Ben’s arm curved around him. The scent of leather surrounded them.

“So,” Ben said at last.

“I know,” John said, tilting his head slightly to look at him. “You want to know exactly what happened today.”

“Yes.”

“It’s just that… well…” John stopped, took a breath, and then tried again. “I don’t want you to think I’ve gone completely mad.”

“Not a chance, John. You’re the sanest person I know.”

“Yeah, see, that’s really not much comfort coming from you.” John grinned at him, then quickly sobered. “All right, so there might have been some things going on that I… never quite got round to telling you about. Because, well, it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. I know that, okay? See, the first time we met… before anything even happened, the first time we met… that night, I started having the weirdest dreams. I thought at first I was dreaming about you, but then it got worse after seeing your show, and I realised after a while it wasn’t you at all. It was _him_. Sherlock.”

John gestured vaguely at the empty air, then continued.

“It took me a while to work it out because he wasn’t the same as your Sherlock, the Victorian one. It was like he’d gone modern. He behaved a lot like your Sherlock, but he usually wore a nice suit, and sometimes a big overcoat, and a scarf. But whoever he was, I dreamed about him. Looking like you. And one of you was definitely in some sort of trouble.”

The silence lasted long enough that John shifted around in order to see Ben’s face more clearly.

“John,” Ben said cautiously, “you know how sometimes I don’t quite follow you? This is one of those times. I’m not actually sure even you understand what you’re talking about, right now.”

“Never mind,” John said, frustrated and slightly annoyed, although Ben’s reaction was not entirely unreasonable. “The thing is, I stopped having the dreams about the same time the headaches came on. The first time was right after we… got together.”

Ben nodded, still looking confused.

“I always thought they were connected in some way, you know? Because sometimes during the headaches I’d still see things, like visions. Always about Sherlock, _that_ Sherlock—about the two of us, really, because I was right there with him. I think we were flatmates, working together, doing the same kinds of crazy things you do on that show of yours, only with mobiles and computers thrown in. I was like his Irene—he acted as though he expected me to be there for him, follow him around, listen to him talk. We weren’t actually together, though, nothing like that. I’m not sure he ever thought about anything outside of himself and his work. Mostly he seemed to tell me what to do and I… did it.”

“Really?” Ben looked mock-incredulous. “That must have been a novel experience for you.”

John smiled, although he felt oddly wistful at the same time. “I don’t think I minded too much.”

“That’s amazing. How did he manage it? I’d love to know.”

“I’ll never tell.”

Ben shook his head, but bent to press his lips softly against John’s hair.

“Anyway,” John continued, “when I first saw Richard Brook… Jim Moriarty… I felt he was dangerous, somehow, but now I think it was something to do with _him_. Sherlock. _That_ Sherlock. The one I kept dreaming about. It wasn’t anything to do with the _real_ Richard Brook, and it’s nothing to do with you. I understand that now.”

“Well, I… still don’t, at all, but you can explain it to me again later. All I really want to know is why you think the headaches are going to go away, just like that. How can you be so sure?”

It was a simple enough question, but the wave of sorrow that swept over John was overwhelming. While something in him was certain enough, the _how_ and _why_ of it were complicated and confusing, and he already knew he didn’t want to think about it too much. However, he felt he owed Ben some kind of explanation. He looked away, swallowing hard, brushing off Ben’s arm for the moment while he collected himself.

“I’m sure,” he said, and his voice was still thick with emotion. “The thing is, all along, with you… I felt that he was there as well, somehow. Sherlock. Not you, not your character, but _him_. As though he were just… waiting in the background, trying to get me to _understand_. Something. Then in the time after I… fainted, I saw a lot of things. One after the other, like memories. And then nothing. Just darkness. I still remember everything, but it really is all like a dream now. I don’t know exactly what happened, but I do know he’s gone. For good. I think… I think he might be dead.”

John found himself even more reluctant to tell Ben about the cyclist who had knocked him down, the crazy idea he’d had afterwards. _Maybe we both are._ Instead, he blinked furiously and turned to Ben again. “Now, well, there’s just you. Not that I’m complaining, mind.”

“You think… you’re acting as though he were a real person. Who just happened to look like me.”

“That’s the thing. I _know_ none of it’s real. I’ve even tried imagining you with an identical twin brother somewhere and it’s still impossible. But at the time… he felt just as real as you are. My therapist kept warning me about PTSD, and that’s the best answer I can come up with. For some reason I must have latched onto you, onto your character, and dreamed him up because I couldn’t cope with coming back to civilian life.” He reached across for Ben’s hand, clasped it in his own. “Maybe it just means I’m… doing a bit better now.”

Ben’s hand tightened on his, and John leaned into him. “I am curious, though. How _did_ you know Richard’s real name?”

John shrugged. “I probably read it somewhere. I delete things all the time; maybe I just missed that one.”

“I don’t know what to say, John. I’m sorry. For what you’ve gone through, if nothing else.”

“I know it sounds crazy. It is crazy. But it’s done with now.”

“Let’s hope so,” Ben said. “And not just for the sake of your health, either. I’m not sure I could compete with someone who could make you do… anything he wanted, it sounds like.”

“Pity he never wanted anything like this.” John turned towards Ben and began kissing him softly, needing him to know how grateful John was for his patience, his understanding.

They were interrupted by the sound of the doorbell, and John broke off reluctantly to go downstairs for the food. When he returned, Ben automatically moved to help him unpack it, but his mind was clearly elsewhere, trying to process everything John had said.

“It’s ridiculous, isn’t it,” Ben said, when they sat down to eat. “I think I’m actually jealous of someone who doesn’t exist.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” John said, in between mouthfuls. “You’ve got good reason to be. He certainly had a much better wardrobe than your Sherlock.”

He received a good-natured scowl before Ben’s expression turned more serious.

“About that,” he said. “You know that…well, a lot of people saw what happened today. Everything that happened. I really don’t think you’re going to be able to stay out of sight for very much longer. People will talk.”

“I know.” John had already reached that conclusion hours ago. He set down his bowl for a moment. This was a conversation he didn’t want to be having now, but he supposed it had to happen sometime. “So if you thought you needed to take some kind of… countermeasures, I’d understand.”

He’d meant well, but Ben just stared at him in disbelief. “What exactly do you think you’re suggesting? That I should… move out? Get another girlfriend? No, never mind, I don’t want to hear it. You know I want people to know. I’ve always wanted it. It’s whether you can stand to be photographed once in a while, that’s all.” He looked at John as though daring him to protest.

“I think that could quite possibly kill me,” John said, but at Ben’s answer he’d felt something of the melancholy lift from him. He smiled across the table. “But I’ll manage. You’re the one who’s really going to cop it.”

“It’ll be fine,” Ben said firmly.

***

**_Of Sherlock, Spies and Sex_ ** **_— Benedict Cumberbatch’s Double Life_ **

_It’s been a whirlwind year for actor Benedict Cumberbatch, 35, with an unlikely breakthrough appearance in BBC’s Victorian detective drama_ Sherlock _leading to sold-out performances of Danny Boyle’s stage production_ Frankenstein _, and a whole host of big-name features to come, including Steven Spielberg’s_ War Horse _and Peter Jackson’s_ The Hobbit _._

_Right now he’s in the midst of promoting his upcoming film,_ Tinker Tailor, Soldier, Spy _, a new adaptation of LeCarre’s classic Cold War novel, with a star-studded cast including Gary Oldman, John Hurt, Kathy Burke, Colin Firth and Toby Jones. Cumberbatch plays Peter Guillam, a member of the Intelligence Service who becomes a crucial element in the plans of spymaster George Smiley (Gary Oldman), as he works to uncover a mole infiltrating the ranks._

_Adding to the intrigue surrounding this complex role are the recent revelations concerning Cumberbatch’s personal life. After splitting from his girlfriend of many years, fellow actor Olivia Poulet, in early 2011, he remained officially unattached despite growing rumours of a relationship with another man. However, last month Cumberbatch publically acknowledged his new partner, general practitioner and research consultant John Watson, 40, whom he met through ‘mutual friends’._

_It’s since been framed as a case of life imitating art, where the character of Peter Guillam, originally portrayed as a womaniser in LeCarre’s novel, is depicted in the film with a male partner who becomes a sacrifice to the cause. However, Cumberbatch has repeatedly denied any basis to the speculation that his new relationship is some kind of publicity stunt, or in any way related to the role._

_“It’s completely ridiculous, what people are saying,” he insists. “And actually quite insulting, if you think about it. I thought at first people might assume I’ve been secretly gay all along, and worrying how that might affect Olivia, because it’s just not true, but now it’s almost gone the other way, with people doubting whether John is for real. I think some of them might be having just a little difficulty separating fiction from reality. Really, I just wanted to be honest about where I am right now, and I can’t believe how absurd it’s all become, it’s like something out of Kafka.”_

_The speculation, however, has only been compounded by Cumberbatch’s refusal to clarify his sexuality._

_“I don’t understand society’s need to fit people into neat little boxes. The people I care for know how I feel about them, and that’s all that matters.”_

_On the subject of Peter Guillam, however, Cumberbatch is more forthcoming._

_“I was actually offered the role before anyone had even seen_ Sherlock _, which was very flattering, and of course I jumped at the chance to work with Tomas Alfredson, even before I knew who else was on board. Peter Guillam is such a complex, interesting character. He’s half-French, and his whole family’s been involved with MI6 for years; he hardly knows anything else. When the film opens he’s just come back from North Africa, where he…”_

“I don’t have to read the whole thing, do I? My brain is starting to liquefy.”

John folded the newspaper in half without waiting for an answer, and then set it aside, glancing up into Ben’s anxious face. “I’ve told you already, I don’t care what you say to the press. Tell them I’m a pole-dancing plumber from Manchester if it makes you happy. Just don’t make me read any more of these things.”

Despite his complaints, John supposed he should be grateful. The blizzard of badly-written articles had so far proven to be the worst part of the recent disclosure, especially since Ben’s publicist seemed to have no idea of the meaning of ‘restraint’. He’d begged Ben to stop compulsively reviewing them, but to no avail.

“Maybe I’ll consider letting you off if you come to Venice next month for the premiere,” Ben said suddenly. His worried expression had vanished, and he had a decidedly mischievous glint in his eye. John had the distinct feeling he’d just been set up. “Walk the red carpet with me.”

“Oh, god.”

If the crowd at the _Sherlock_ filming site had been alarming enough, John suspected the film festival would be of a completely different order of magnitude.

“For someone who’s said they always wanted to see the world, I’ve noticed it’s surprisingly difficult getting you out of London.”

“I do have a job, you know,” John said mildly. “With patients, and everything. Consulting is fun, but there’s no money in it.”

When John had turned his blog to picking apart research studies, it had only been to appease the continuing demands of his therapist, but he’d kept doing it out of sheer irritation even after his therapy was over. He hadn’t expected anyone to actually _read_ it, but it seemed a few knowledgeable people actually did, and as word spread he’d managed to publically embarrass several well-known institutions. Since then it had developed into a tiny online consulting business ensuring that future studies were properly formulated. In terms of payment it was more honorarium than wage, but at least the work kept him entertained.

“And don’t say it,” John added. He gave Ben a warning look, having already had quite enough of Ben’s continuing argument that he earned enough for John to at least give up his clinic job.

“Fine, I won’t. But it’ll only be for a couple of days, and you do have to admit it’s a _slightly_ more attractive prospect than joining the military. All you have to do is get dressed up, see a film or two. It’ll be fun.”

“I suppose that’s one word for it.” Still, the chance to see something of Venice was undeniably appealing, as long as he could rearrange his hours to suit. And since he and Ben were now publically together, he might as well make the best of it.

“Well?”

“All right, then. I’ll see if I can get the time off work. It sounds _almost_ as much fun as a war zone,” John said, but he was smiling.

By now he was more-or-less accustomed to his official status as Ben’s partner. Prior to the official media statements there had already been a flurry of lunches and dinners with all the people who probably deserved to hear about things before the papers did. The one with Mike and Alex had actually been quite enjoyable; Mike had been genuinely pleased for both of them and Alex had been thrilled to think she’d had an inadvertent part in bringing them together.

Lunch with Ben’s parents had also gone better than expected, although John was left with the distinct impression that they’d both been secretly hoping for a reconciliation with Olivia. However, they’d done their best to hide it. Wanda greeted him with a warm hug, while Timothy (not Tim, ever, Ben had warned him) shook John’s hand and then spent a considerable length of time talking about his high blood pressure and tennis elbow. Their immense pride in Ben was obvious, though, and for that alone John was inclined to like them. It had been a relaxed and pleasant afternoon.

In contrast, dinner with Harry and her latest girlfriend had been somewhat more trying. Harry was in her traditional phase of relationship-related sobriety, and while John was pleased about it for her sake, he was also aware it had the perverse effect of making her rather _less_ pleasant to be around. He’d winced as she freely regaled Ben with embarrassing childhood stories in between making indiscreet and unerringly accurate observations about their fellow diners. She also spent considerable time expounding on John’s dating history, and the disappointment she and John had apparently been to their late parents. When Harry wasn’t drunk, she had the tendency to make other people long to be.

“I wouldn’t have believed it, but she’s worse than you are,” Ben had muttered late in the evening, when Harry had excused herself to visit the bathroom. John really had nothing he could say to that, especially after her comment that the infant at a nearby table was clearly unrelated to the man posing as its father, so of _course_ it was upset. Thankfully, the couple in question were too busy dealing with the wailing of said infant to have overheard; John had no idea what it was doing out at that hour anyway.

Even the new girlfriend provided little respite; Anthea spent the evening attached to her Blackberry, virtually ignoring all of them. When she did bother to join in the conversation she was pleasant enough, with a charming smile and a quick wit, but most of the time her attention was clearly elsewhere. John couldn’t hold it against her; it was as practical a strategy for living with his sister as any he’d ever seen. However, despite Anthea’s lack of engagement, she was clearly and inexplicably fond of Harry. In the aftermath of the baby incident she had casually mentioned that they had even discussed starting a family of their own in the next year or two, because she wasn’t getting any younger, and how would John _feel_ about maybe helping out with that? John nearly choked on his coffee, while Ben had reacted with far more equanimity than John felt strictly necessary.

But on the whole things continued much as usual, although John was still reluctant to think much more than a month or two ahead, as though one morning Ben might suddenly wake up and come to his senses. Ben still had plenty of work on, for the moment, but the media fuss had already shown how much of a liability John could still be to his career. And while at times they’d cautiously discussed longer-term plans, they had never gone into it very deeply. Their relationship held many possibilities, but as yet no definite conclusions, and as yet John didn’t feel he could take anything for granted.

***

Venice was beautiful, even more so than John had expected, and despite his earlier reservations, it was a rare pleasure to enjoy an all-expenses-paid vacation where the only risk he ran of being shot came from the paparazzi. He also enjoyed making sure Ben looked consistently presentable, for once. John had never cared much about what he himself wore, but that was only because he rarely had reason to look in a mirror. Ben was an entirely different matter.

The premiere was scheduled on a Monday evening, and as dusk fell John dutifully walked the red carpet, grimacing slightly in the glare of the flashbulbs while Ben waved and smiled. John was actually quite grateful when he and the other ‘partners’ were shunted unceremoniously to one side so that the media could focus on capturing group images of their main targets. Afterwards, he mingled uncomfortably in the theatre’s holding pen, where he became briefly acquainted with the names and faces of an endless stream of people and then promptly forgot most of them, much to Ben’s chagrin. Apparently some of them were really quite famous. Eventually someone in charge remembered that they were there to watch a film of some description, whereupon they all trooped obediently into the theatre.

The movie wasn’t bad at all, although John found it surprisingly disconcerting to see Ben’s character break down in tears on screen, even if his relationship were purely fictional, even if he was only doing his job. He’d reached for Ben’s hand then, instinctively, and felt Ben glance at him in surprise. When the screening was over, John managed a quick round of congratulations before abandoning the after-party to explore the streets of Venice by himself, with a promise to meet Ben back at the hotel. There was only so much artifice he could bear for one evening.

He returned to the Cipriani in the early hours of the morning, having finally had his fill of cobbled bridges and moody waterways. Even at that hour the hotel was still bright and abuzz with people, and he slipped gratefully into the dark and quiet of the room. To his surprise, Ben was already there, stripped down to shirtsleeves, trousers and bare feet, standing by the window. The door to the balcony was open, and he appeared to be admiring the sight of the lagoon stretched out before him, the glow of multi-coloured lights reflected in ripples on the water. Soft strains of music and conversation were audible, probably drifting up from a terrace somewhere below. He looked back with a smile as John approached.

“Hey, shouldn’t you be out there schmoozing rather than standing here in the dark?” John came up behind Ben and wrapped his arms around him. He could smell cigarette smoke and alcohol and a dozen different varieties of perfume and aftershave, all mingled in together. Ben was somewhere in there, too.

“I’ve just got in,” Ben said, leaning back slightly against him, and from the coolness of his clothes and the traces of sweat on his skin it was very likely true. “I was hoping you’d be back.”

“Why’s that, then?” John said, and began kissing a tender line from neck to ear without waiting for a response. He could tell from the humming tension in Ben’s body that he was still hyped-up from the events of the evening, high on nerves and adrenaline. Ben turned around in his arms, then, and began answering the question comprehensively, pushing him back onto the bed as John’s hands reached for the remaining buttons of his shirt.

At the beginning John had questioned, sometimes, the true strength of Ben’s feelings for him; even then he’d had enough respect for Ben’s talents to know he could never afford to assume anything, no matter how genuine Ben seemed. It was one of the things that made him interesting, even as it made John’s life correspondingly more complicated. However, after all they’d been through, John had mostly set aside those doubts in favour of quiet belief. While he knew he didn’t quite fit into Ben’s world, maybe that, too, was part of why they were together.

When they were both naked on the smooth cotton sheets, John stopped for a moment to appreciate the way Ben looked spread out underneath him, his face alive with desire, his eyes dark and trusting. John had made a habit of telling Ben how attractive he was, because he knew a part of Ben needed to hear it, and because it was true. Now he used words like _fucking_ _beautiful_ , and _gorgeous_ , as he slowly pushed into Ben, lost in the smooth slide of skin and sweat, the heat of him. Ben moaned his name and bucked up against him, taking him harder and deeper until John reached for him and they were both undone.

Afterwards, they lay quietly together in the half-light and exchanged impressions of the evening. John described the sounds of Vivaldi being played in an ancient church, the quiet laneways with their tiny, crooked bridges, but while Ben listened intently, it was clear he was still preoccupied with the experience of attending his premiere. The movie seemed to have been very well received, which Ben was pleased about, although in John’s private opinion he was hardly going to get much in the way of criticism from the kind of crowd who had been in attendance.

“So, what did you think?”

To an observer, Ben’s question might have sounded casual enough, but John knew better. It was also the kind of question he hated answering, because he never knew quite what to say. While Ben himself obviously meant a great deal, John hadn’t gone out of his way to watch more than a handful of Ben’s past performances; deep down, the lure of make-believe wasn’t something he really understood. At least Ben hadn’t seemed to mind too much, or perhaps he was just relieved he hadn’t been expected to read John’s blog articles, either.

“You know I’m not much of a critic,” John said, one hand lightly stroking Ben’s arm, “but it was good. You were good. You know you were.”

“Even though I think you’re rather obligated to say that.”

“Just as well it’s true, then.”

“Thank you,” Ben said softly, shifting a little closer, “for coming to Venice. Putting up with all of this… fuss. Me.”

“Stop that,” John said, knowing that with his own work-absorbed silences and occasional vagueness he was hardly the easiest person to live with, either. Ben’s insecurities didn’t bother him nearly as much as they did Ben. John pulled himself up until he was leaning against the oversized pillows and pulled Ben into his arms, his back against John’s chest. “It’s been… good. Wouldn’t have missed it. Although I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many cameras in my entire life.”

“So, then,” Ben said, “how would you feel about New Zealand at the end of the year? I think I’m going to have to go over for a bit.”

It took John a second to remember, and then he shook his head. “You mean for that ridiculous hobbit movie? I still don’t know why you said yes to something like that.”

“It sounded like fun. And I’d like to point out I’m not actually _playing_ the hobbit in question. That really would be embarrassing,” Ben said, turning his head to smile at him. “Dragons are far more dignified.”

“Right,” said John, completely unconvinced. “I suppose I could… arrange time off from the clinic. If you wanted.”

“Of course I’d want that.”

“At least the papers shouldn’t be able to make anything out of you being a dragon,” John said, remembering the bizarre articles he’d been forced to read. “Unless you intend to start hoarding gold in the flat.”

Ben laughed, and disentangled himself from John’s arms until they were sitting side-by-side, surrounded by pillows. “Actually, I was just going to say that in hindsight they might not have been completely wrong about… us. Not the publicity stunt bit, of course, but it has been a little coincidental. When I was doing _Frankenstein_ , I was missing Olivia terribly, so in a way I really was lonely, and I suppose looking for someone I could…well, be with. And now everything’s about Peter Guillam, and I do seem to have ended up with a boyfriend.”

“Who you’re tragically going to have to ditch for the sake of your career?”

“John…”

“I’m joking,” John said, although to be honest, part of him might not have been. “But that whole business was ridiculous, and you know it.”

“Would you stop interrupting? I was going to say that they might have been onto something, after all. Especially since _Sherlock_ is up again next.”

“What do you mean?” John’s fixation on Ben’s alter-ego was finally over, or so he’d thought, and yet at the mention his senses still went on full alert.

“Well, series two will be the next major thing I’m doing publicity for,” Ben continued. “And the interesting thing is that Sherlock’s still quite newly married, isn’t he? At least in my version, he is. If one were to enjoy speculating over some mysterious correlation between my acting roles and my love life.”

“Okay, I suppose he is.” John guessed that there was a point in there somewhere.

“Which means perhaps you should be concerned.”

“Why?”

“Come on John, you’re not often this slow.” Ben was smiling, but there was a sharper edge to his tone, oddly familiar, that caught John’s attention. “I’m just saying that there’s so much potential there for another unlikely coincidence.”

Confused, John’s thoughts automatically turned to Sherlock and Irene and their tumultuous marriage. It was somewhere John always suspected Ben might end up eventually, even though he struggled to think of any likely candidates Ben might have mentioned in the past few months. Perhaps he should have been paying more attention. It was also surprisingly callous of Ben to bring up the subject only minutes after they had just discussed going away together, but then John never really had understood the way these things worked. Clearly, there was something he’d missed. “So, do you mean you’re… planning on getting married, then?”

Ben gave him a look of mock despair.

“Well, in a manner of speaking, yes, I thought I could do. That is, if my genius boyfriend weren’t so astonishingly clueless.”

“Oh.” As the realisation sank in, John wondered if he might possibly be dreaming again.

“So what do you think? Or do I have to go through it again more _slowly_ for you?” Ben was now lying propped up on one elbow, looking far too pleased with himself, but John was still too stunned to resent it. He only pulled himself together when he saw Ben’s expectant expression waver a little, betraying a flicker of anxiety. “John?”

“No,” he said quickly, “you don’t have to. I mean yes. To what you were asking. That is, if you really were asking. Wait, were you?”

“Hopeless,” Ben said. Quickly, he shifted over to cover John’s body with his own, and began kissing him before he could say another word.

***

In the years that followed, John was never again troubled by menacing dreams, or mysterious headaches, or fragmented glimpses of a Sherlock who had never been. Yet he never deleted the memories, either. Occasionally he would bring them out in the early hours of the morning and examine them, one by one, sifting through them like a collection of worn and faded photographs.

_Sherlock_. Here he was, running headlong through the streets of London, coat billowing out behind him; and here again, restlessly pacing the cluttered, unfamiliar rooms at Baker Street, his hands clenched in exasperation; or finally, in the starkest, most disturbing images, silhouetted up against the mysteriously unfenced roofline of Barts, falling forward into darkness. The last always made John’s stomach clench and the breath catch in his throat, and yet he could never set it aside unexamined.

When he was done, John would tuck the images safely away in his memories once more. Then he would turn back to Ben’s sleeping figure, and curve an arm tightly around him. These ritual observances were the one thing he deliberately kept hidden from Ben, for reasons he could not quite articulate even to himself. Perhaps it was that despite the superficial resemblance to Ben and his character, in some unquantifiable way _this_ Sherlock was someone who belonged to John alone. And while John was very much aware how fortunate he was to have found a life with Ben, still he would lie there and wonder, sometimes, what might have been.


End file.
